4:57 A.M.

           Ican’tstopthinkingabout"WaitingforVengeance."It’sbeenyearssinceI’velistenedtoorthoughtofthatsong,butafterGrampsleftmybedside,I’vebeensingingittomyselfoverandover.Dadwrotethesongagesago,butnowitfeelslikehewroteityesterday.Likehewroteitfromwhereverheis.Likethere’sasecretmessageinitforme.Howelsetoexplainthoselyrics?I’mnotchoosing.ButI’mrunningoutoffight.

           Whatdoesitmean?Isitsupposedtobesomekindofinstruction?Someclueaboutwhatmyparentswouldchooseformeiftheycould?Itrytothinkaboutitfromtheirperspectives.Iknowthey’dwanttobewithme,forusalltobetogetheragaineventually.ButIhavenoideaifthatevenhappensafteryoudie,andifitdoes,it’llhappenwhetherIgothismorningorinseventyyears.Whatwouldtheywantformenow?AssoonasIposethequestion,IcanseeMom’spissed-offexpression.She’dbelividwithmeforevencontemplatinganythingbutstaying.ButDad,heunderstoodwhatitmeanttorunoutoffight.Maybe,likeGramps,he’dunderstandwhyIdon’tthinkIcanstay.

           I’msingingthesong,asifburiedwithinitslyricsareinstructions,amusicalroadmaptowhereI’msupposedtogoandhowtogetthere.

           I’msingingandconcentratingandsingingandthinkingsohardthatIbarelyregisterWillow’sreturntotheICU,barelynoticethatshe’stalkingtothegrumpynurse,barelyrecognizethesteelydeterminationinhertone.